4 Times Sherlock Needed a Hug
by ibelieveinguardianangels
Summary: A multi-chapter compilation of 4 scenarios wherein Sherlock needed a hug and the one time he didn't.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a new 4, +1 series. 4 times Sherlock needed a hug and the one time he didn't.  
I know it's been a while since I last wrote one of these. And I apologise that this chapter is a little empty, it's just a taster chapter to see what you would think of it.  
Sorry for any mistakes. **

**1\. Sherlock's upset.**

Sherlock was upset. John could see from the lost look in his kaleidoscope eyes that there was something troubling him.

He had tried again and again to get Sherlock to talk to him, to share what it was that was bothering him, but the detective was having none of it. John had eventually decided to leave it be. He would allow Sherlock to make up his own mind about talking to him if and when he felt comfortable doing so.

That was until his attention was torn away from the blog notes he was currently typing up and he watched as poor Sherlock stalked dejectedly out of the sitting room, his head hanging low, and down the small hallway to his bedroom.

Within minutes of him closing his bedroom door, John heard the unmistakeable sound of sniffling drifting through the gaps.

John rose from his chair at the sound and took a step in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom before he suddenly stopped and hovered in the sitting room. He was torn. He wanted to be there for Sherlock. He wanted to comfort him. But he didn't want to impose on Sherlock's space by letting himself into the bedroom.

His decision was made for him when he heard a sob emit from inside the bedroom. There was no way he could allow Sherlock to cry in there alone.

He knocked lightly on the bedroom door before reaching down with his right hand to turn the handle, slightly surprised to find that it wasn't actually locked.

When he had first pushed the door open, Sherlock had been lying face down on his bed with his face buried in the now-damp pillow. In the time it had taken John to blink, Sherlock had sat up and was now facing the doctor, clearly attempting to put his protective wall back up.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock inquired, attempting to appear to the doctor as though there was nothing wrong despite the puffiness of his cheeks and his bloodshot eyes.

John shook his head.

"Don't Sherlock." John warned as he entered the room further. "It's okay to be upset." John promised, gesturing towards Sherlock's bed with his hand and waiting for permission to sit down. After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock nodded. "What's upsetting you?"

"Urgh," Sherlock groaned, frustrated, "I don't know, John!"

"Well that's okay." John smiled reassuringly.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked. He looked very confused and John had to suppress a smile.

"Yes, Sherlock, of course it is." He promised. "We all get upset at some point, Sherlock, and we don't always know why." John scooted a little closer to his friend. "It doesn't mean that there's anything wrong with you. Come here."

John opened his arms, holding them out to the detective who all but fell into them.

John tightened his grip around his best friend's thin frame and squeezed him tightly.

"Can I ask a favour, Sherlock?" John inquired as the detective buried his head in the crook of John's neck, Sherlock hummed in response. "If you feel like this again, just tell me. I won't think any less of you."

 **The rest of the chapters are written and just waiting to be posted.  
Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think.**

 **ibelieveinguardianangels**


	2. Chapter 2

**There are** 2 **updates today.  
I figured Mrs. Hudson could have a chapter. Thanks to **Tamuril **for suggesting Mrs. Hudson.  
Sorry for any mistakes.**

 **2\. Mrs Hudson**

Mrs. Hudson hurried up the staircase of 17 steps to apartment 221B as fast as her painful hip would allow her. She had initially planned to give the young detective a firm tongue lashing and a piece of her mind. It was just after 10pm and the man was banging and clattering around in his flat as though he had completely forgotten that other people exist.

John was away for the weekend, visiting his sister to ensure that she was remaining sober for herself and for Clara, so there was no-one in the building to control Sherlock and his behaviour.

Swinging open the surprisingly unlocked front door, she came to a halt. The chastise she had been coming up with on her way up dying on her tongue as she took in the scene before her.

The entire apartment appeared to have been turned upside down and Sherlock was frantically searching through box after box of trinkets and knick-knacks she had assumed belonged to John. He was carelessly tipping out the contents of each container onto the carpet or the table, discarding the box and rummaging through the pile it left behind.

But it wasn't the mess that surprised the landlady. It was the occupant. Sherlock, himself, was in as much of a state as the flat. His curly hair was messed from where he had systematically combed his fingers through it. His usually pallor face was red and tear stained, more tears threatening to fall when he glanced up at her.

Sherlock's clothing was just as bedraggled as he was, his pyjamas were inside out, his dressing gown discarded on the sofa.

"Sherlock dear," Mrs. Hudson cooed at the detective, watching as his bloodshot eyes danced up towards her again, "what are you doing? What's wrong?"

"I can't find it." Sherlock spoke. His speech was slightly distorted from his bunged up nose and the words caught in his throat, causing more tears to spill down his cheeks.

"Can't find what, love?" Mrs. Hudson questioned, entering the sitting room and making her way over to the detective, ensuring that she didn't step on anything breakable.

"A locket." Sherlock gasped through his tears. "It's not on a chain. It's golden and about this big." He held up his thumb and forefinger, creating a space about the size of a 50 pence piece.

Sherlock took in a shaky breath as he lowered both of his hands back to the carpet he was kneeling on. Mrs. Hudson knew that this locket must be extremely important to the detective for him to be in such a state about it.

"Listen, dear," Mrs. Hudson spoke softly, reaching out and touching Sherlock's shoulder, "let's tidy up and calm you down a bit. Then you can look on it with a clear mind, yes?"

Somehow managing to talk to the detective into cleaning, the pair tidied the flat rather quickly and Mrs. Hudson guided the still fraught man to the sofa, insisting that he sit down. She didn't bother with tea. Instead she sat down beside him.

Mrs. Hudson quietly pulled the man towards her, admittedly surprised that he didn't fight the contact. Instead he slowly lay down until his head was resting in her lap, her hands stroking his fluffy curls. After a few minutes, he rolled over in her lap so that he was facing her stomach and wrapped his thin arms around her waist.

Mrs. Hudson somehow succeeded in calming the man and watched quietly as he slowly fell asleep. After following his lead and awakening the next morning covered up with a blanket on the sofa, she was happy to see the detective much calmer than the previous night and holding in his hands the locket that he was so frantic about finding the night before.

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **Please let me know what you think.**

 **ibelieveinguardianangels**


	3. Chapter 3

**Here is the second update today.**

 **Just a simple chapter, I figured Sherlock might do something like this.  
Sorry for any mistakes.**

 **3\. Sherlock needs a hug**

"Sherlock," John let out a sigh, closing his laptop and placing it on the floor as Sherlock sauntered back into the sitting room and dropped heavily onto the couch with a sigh of his own, "what's _wrong_?" He demanded. He didn't sound particularly angry with the detective, but he wasn't necessarily calm either.

Sherlock had been in an odd mood all morning. John wouldn't say that it was a black mood. Sherlock _was_ in a good enough spirits. He was just acting strange.

He was moping, John supposed. He was sighing pathetically every so often to get John's attention, but refusing to elaborate on the cause of his slump.

Sherlock looked up at John's exasperated tone and blinked at him.

"Just talk to me." John stated. "I can't understand sighs, Sherlock. Try using words and I might stand a chance at helping you."

Sherlock didn't speak. He flipped the corner of his dressing gown and rolled over onto his side so that he was facing the back of the settee. It was when he did that, John realised just how tense his best friend was.

Sherlock's spine was uncomfortably straight even in his curled up position and his shoulders were tightened up against his jaw line. Feeling a sense of guilt rise in his chest, his stood from his seat, crossing the room so that he was close to the sofa and carefully placing his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Sherlock?" John questioned in a soft voice, waiting until he was certain he had Sherlock's attention. "I'm sorry I snapped. I just - you're worrying me with your sighing and moping. I wish you'd just tell me what's bothering you. That way I might be able to help you."

"Hug me." Sherlock ordered suddenly in a voice so soft that John barely heard him.

"What?" John question, disbelief obvious in his tone, when he realised what Sherlock had said.

"Nothing. Never mind." Sherlock shook his head at John. "It's not important."

Sherlock rolled over and made to stand up and leave the room, but John intercepted him, sitting down and forcing him to sit as well. He wordlessly wrapped his arms around his waist. Sherlock unconsciously leant his head against John's shoulder, reciprocating the hug.

"Is that what you've needed all day?" John questioned softly, leaning back slightly and brushing Sherlock's growing curls from his eyes. Sherlock nodded in a manner that John would describe as shy. "Why on earth didn't you just ask me, you silly sod?"

"I thought that you'd say no." Sherlock admitted in a whisper.

"You idiot," John insulted him light heartedly, "did you _really_ think that I wouldn't hug you?"

"You're not gay." Sherlock noted.

"That doesn't mean that I don't like hugs, Sherlock." John smiled softly at him. "When was the last time that somebody held you like this?"

At this, Sherlock paused, clearly thinking.

"I think I would have been about 11," Sherlock told John, averting his eyes, "just before I went away to boarding school. No-one's liked me enough to do it since."

"Oh, Sherlock," John said in what sounded like a gentle reprimand. He momentarily tightened his grip around Sherlock's thin frame, "listen to me. If you ever need a hug, or just _want_ a hug, you know where I am. Don't be worried about asking me. I won't say no."

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **Please review.**

 **ibelieveinguardianangels**


	4. Chapter 4

**The last 2 chapters are being posted today, here is the first of todays updates.** **This one is my favourite of all of the chapters in this work.  
There's one more left.  
Sorry for any mistakes. **

**4\. Sherlock's claustrophobic**

"No signal." Sally groaned, frustrated, as she held the phone up towards the skylight above her from her position on the floor. As if being trapped in a cellar wasn't bad enough as it was, she had to have been trapped with none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. And the consulting detective was currently in a rage, ranting and raving about the incompetence of the officers and how they should have noticed by now that they were missing two people and _hadn't Sally told_ someone _to guard the door?_

She had in fact. And that someone was one Philip Anderson who had apparently either forgotten that they were looking in there for evidence or just couldn't be bothered to make sure that she and Sherlock were safe.

Usually, Sally would have bitten Sherlock's curly haired head off or snapped and insulted him. _Anything_ to get him to shut up. But there was something different about this. This wasn't typical Sherlock muttering.

He was pressed tightly up against the damp wall, doubled over slightly. His hands were wrapped around his stomach as though he was trying to hold himself together. Sally could only pray that he wasn't trying to stop himself from throwing up. His speech was faster than normal and his usual eloquence was missing. His words were blended together and almost unintelligible, occasionally punctuated with jumps and pauses that Sally would describe as stammering.

If he were anyone but who he was, Sally would have sworn that Sherlock was scared. But of course, he was Sherlock Holmes and he didn't _do_ emotions.

"How about now?" He demanded suddenly and Sally was aware that he was referring to the lack of signal on her mobile. Just to humour him, because he was so out of character at the minute, she checked again, shaking her head when her signal bar came back empty.

He dug his own, trembling, hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out his own phone, letting out a shaky sigh when he discovered that he was receiving no signal either.

After a moment, once he had shakily stuffed his phone into the pocket of his jacket, it appeared that any strength the man had left him and he came crashing to the floor. He only just missed hitting his head on the concrete ground by smacking it on the end of Sally's shoe instead. She winced at the thought of the bruises that would develop of his knees from the impact of the fall.

She didn't really want to ask him, that would suggest she cared, but it was only decent, particularly after such a fall;

"Are you okay?" She inquired, very surprised when he actually shook his head.

At such a remote admission, Sally was on her feet again in seconds. She hooked her hands under his armpits and lifted, unsurprised at how light the detective actually was. She managed to move him so that he was sitting on his bottom, leaning up against the wall opposite where Sally had been sitting. She sat down beside him, a hand resting on his forearm so that he knew she was there.

Poor Sherlock was trembling from head to toe, sweat matting his hair to his forehead. And Sally noted a damp patch on the floor directly beneath where Sherlock had fallen that she _hoped_ hadn't come from him.

Sally didn't speak for a moment, she couldn't think of what to say. But when she glanced up at his face, she felt her breath hitch painfully in her throat.

This man sitting beside her wasn't _Sherlock_. This wasn't the freak that she was so used to bullying and tormenting without a second thought. This was a terrified human being who, if the blush painting his cheeks was anything to go by, had wet himself out of fear of being trapped. There were tear tracks making their way down his cheeks, tears flowing, following them.

She might not like the man. But she couldn't just ignore _that_.

"It's alright, Sherlock," Sally promised him, the words feeling foreign on her tongue, "accidents happen. We'll be out of here soon."

Aside from the blush on his cheeks, poor Sherlock was deathly pale.

Sally had _never_ expected to be provided with the proof that Sherlock was, in fact, a living, breathing, _feeling_ , human being. To her, he'd always been nothing more than a machine, a freak.

Somehow, now that she'd seem him in such a vulnerable position, that name just didn't fit him anymore.

A sound escaped Sherlock's lips as his chest heaved. It was a sound that Sally was convinced was a sob and she couldn't stop herself as she reached out and enveloped him in a hug.

He might have been 'the freak', but that didn't mean that she wanted to see him hurting. Not like this.

The last thing that she expected was for him to reciprocate the hug. But he pushed his head into the space between her chin and her shoulder and brought up his thin arms, wrapping them around her in as a tight a grip as he could muster.

She couldn't help but note how he seemed like a sad child seeking love as he sobbed, his chest heaving irregularly. She was certain that she could feel his heart pounding beneath his suit jacket.

Sally hadn't been more thankful to see Doctor Watson as she was the moment the door to the cellar was pushed open to reveal the pair in one another's embrace. She spoke softly to Sherlock, assuring him that it was okay now, they were free, they could leave. She helped him from the floor, taking his still trembling, gloved hand and nodding wordlessly to John as she guided the apparently claustrophobic detective out of the cellar.

Sherlock was subdued, the tears still falling in quick succession despite finally being out in the open and Sally was sure that she knew why. In the summer sunlight, the dampness of his trousers accompanied by the unmistakeable smell of urine was obvious.

She took him as far away from the cellar as she could get him, over to where Lestrade was standing as John quietly followed.

She looked away from Sherlock to berate Lestrade for not finding them earlier, only to notice the amused glint in Anderson's eyes and the obvious snarl on his lips.

She knew what he was going to do. He was going to taunt him, tease him for having an accident, for crying. For being human.

"Not a word." She hissed through gritted teeth. "It's your fault that he's in this state."

Soon enough, John had taken Sherlock home, thankful that he was more like himself than he had been. And Sally had left a bewildered Anderson at the crime scene.

Sherlock couldn't be more grateful that Sally didn't allow his little breakdown to change anything between them. When he saw her at the next crime scene John forced him to attend, she was back to her old self.

"Hey freak!" She called as he went to enter the most recent murder scene. He turned to look at her; "Don't be a stranger okay?"

She couldn't miss the smile that played on his lips.

Just because the name didn't suit him now, it didn't mean she was going to stop calling him it.

 **What did you think of Sally?**

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **ibelieveinguardianangels**


	5. Chapter 5

**Here is it, the final chapter.  
Thank you for reading it.  
I hope you liked it.  
Sorry for any mistakes.**

 **+1. And the one time he didn't.**

The four remaining occupants of Detective Inspector Lestrade's office froze as the consulting detective suddenly flung his long, Belstaff clad, arms around the neck of the DI, a grin on his face.

There was the unmistakeable sound of coffee being spilled as Anderson lost his grip on the takeaway cup he'd been holding, the liquid spilling around his feet and permeating into the carpet.

"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock breathed, the smile still on his face as he pulled back from the hug, "thank you for this case. It's been _brilliant_!"

The case had been exactly what Sherlock had needed, coming at the perfect time to ward of a black mood. He had initially thought that it was a 6, but as the case went on it soon came to be known that it ranked a lot higher on the 1-10 scale than that.

And with that, he turned on his heel, exiting the office and leaving John, Lestrade, Anderson _and_ Donovan staring behind him, mouths agape.

 **Thank you, again, for reading.**

 **ibelieveinguardianangels**


End file.
